


Hopeless

by officemonkey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-09-15 02:55:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9215573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/officemonkey/pseuds/officemonkey
Summary: You'd do a lot for your friends. Anything to keep them safe and happy, y'know. Even when it means you'll be the one hurt in the end.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a prompt about unrequited love and grew a bit more than I was expecting. It's a really interesting dynamic to play with. 
> 
> OK, I've decided there needs to be more story. There will be more chapters, brain and life permitting. I've made some minor edits to the first one to open it up. Hope you all enjoy.

Ugliest sweatpants on the planet, check. Double fudge brownies and Garfield glass full of rum, check. Netflix queue full of squishy, fuzzy Disney movies, check. Even the weather has cooperated and turned the outside world into a grey, waterlogged mess unworthy of my attention. I burrow a little deeper into my blanket nest, taking care not to bump my battered shoulder too much, and hit play. Therapeutic, fuck-all-y’all Friday night is a go. 

I may be hurting now, but the humiliation I dealt Nick in front of his braindead entourage would hurt him much longer. I’d simply reached a point - I was Done With His Bullshit.

There’s history between us and it goes back a whole lot further than the regrettable three years we’ve been in school together. See, my dad is -  _ was - _ involved in a certain local business, serving as an independent contractor, if you will, working under Nick’s father. Hell, I didn’t even know what he was selling half the time. As is inevitable in this line of business, he sold some coke to a cop. Oops. He took Nick’s dad down with him in exchange for two years off his sentence. Somehow, I get the blame for this. 

Yesterday morning, when he came around looking to pick at me some more, I put my foot down. I calmly and rationally explained to him that I would no longer allow him to use me as the convenient target, nor would I stand for his aggression against any of my associates. 

In other words, he took a swing at me and I pounded his ass in until I was tired. 

When a teacher finally pulled me off of him, most of the blood on my hands was his. I didn’t wait to be sent home. I walked right out the front doors, head held high. Maybe I’ll go back Monday. Maybe. 

I’m well into  _ Wreck-it Ralph _ and the tiniest bit tipsy when there’s a knock at my door. I ignore it, nudge up the volume on the TV.  _ They’ll go away, probably selling something. _

They don’t. The knocking becomes more insistent - like there’s a rabbit thumping on my door. I pull the blanket up closer around me and my finger’s on the volume button when I hear it. I pause the movie instead. 

“Meg? Are you home, Meg? Oh god, please be home,” the words repeat, like a prayer of desperation coming from my hallway. I know the voice, and I know I can’t leave him out there forever. I kick off my blanket, run a hand through my hair and tie it back in a messy ponytail. Flip both locks, open the door just far enough to grab a handful of soaking wet red hoodie and yank him inside. 

“Cas, what the fuck - what happened? Get your ass in here, princess,” I elbow the door shut and get a good look at Castiel. Dark hair alternately plastered to his head and sticking straight up in places, not a dry spot on the kid. His lip is busted, rain-thinned blood drips off his chin, another smear of blood from god only knows where across his backpack. 

“Did you - did you  _ run _ all the way here?” I pull him two more steps into the kitchen light and grab a towel off the stove. He nods and tries to suck in a breath. I can hear a telltale squeak and rattle and reach for the inhaler on the top of my fridge. I shouldn’t be used to this but whatever - it is what it is. As long as there are assholes like Nick who prey on kids who stick out in this stupid place, there will be an inhaler on top of my fridge and blood on my kitchen floor.  _ How did I become the goddamn den mother for freaks in this town? _

“Goon squad?” He drops his backpack while I’m unzipping the drenched sweater, letting it drop to the floor. Castiel nods his head, still holding in his last hit off the inhaler. I clean out a nasty-looking gash on his forearm that was hiding a minute ago. He lets his breath out again and the squeaking subsides. 

“Your best buddy was there, too. Good job on his face, by the way.” I drop one soaked and bloody towel to the floor and grab another. He scrunches up when I get to the cut on his lip and tries to duck.  _ Sorry, kid. _

“What happened this time?” I hold his chin firmly in my hand and wipe it off anyway. It's not as bad it looks. I step back and look him up and down once more. He still looks like a drowned rat. I wave a hand and he dutifully puts his arms over his head while I strip off his t-shirt. A bruise about the size and shape of a boot is blooming on his ribs. “Shit, princess -”

“They started it, Meg. I was just walking home with Becky,” Cas shrugs and I push my thumb into the bruise a little harder than absolutely necessary. He’s a terrible liar. 

“And you? I'm sure you said nothing to  _ escalate _ the situation, you perfect little angel?” Castiel also has a habit of letting his mouth write checks his body can't cash. He becomes instantly enthralled with picking the dirt under a fingernail. 

“One teeny tiny itsy bitsy comment regarding his dad's umm -  _ oral talents _ ?” He tries to smile and re-opens his cut. A bead of blood wells up and clings to the edge of his lip. “Probably learning a lot in prison -” 

“Christ, you’re gonna get yourself killed one day.” I wipe the blood away with my thumb, absently tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. I keep a hand on either side of his neck, rest my forehead against his and smile wearily. “Or me. You’re gonna get me killed. You know that, right?”

“Sorry.” I watch dark eyelashes flutter against cheeks that are way too pink and perfect to belong to this idiot. He blinks back up at me, these innocent little blue eyes, made even brighter with a burst blood vessel in one. Despite the beating, he’s still adorable and I can’t be mad much longer.  _ I’m such a dork. _

Hell, I could have stayed that way all night.  _ Don’t be ridiculous, Meg. _

“Hit the shower, princess. You smell.” I push him down the hallway. He sticks out his tongue before disappearing. I shove the wet stuff in my tiny washer on the other end of the kitchen, then fall into the couch, mash my face into a cushion and groan.  _ So much for a quiet night. _

This is not the first time I have rescued this particular kitten out of a tree. Castiel’s been my upstairs neighbor since forever. The first time he showed up on my doorstep, he was a spindly little fourth-grader hiding out from his stepdad. We ate ice cream and gossiped about the neighbors all night and I gleefully lied my ass off to anyone who came looking for him. Seven years later, he’s still a little kid with a big mouth in need of a savior. The only things that have changed between then and now are the bully he’s running from and how completely fucking stupid I am for him. I’m a loser. 

I flip the movie back on and put my feet up on the table. Castiel re-emerges a few minutes later, flops down on the couch next to me, and grabs a brownie. I see he’s been in my closet - he’s got my shiny purple pajama pants and a fuzzy sweater with little bunnies all over it. 

“Whatcha watchin’?” He nudges his head against my shoulder until I put up my arm, permission to snuggle up against my side.  _ Hey there, stupid.  _ There’s this warm thrumming in my chest that shouldn’t be. I hate him a little bit. 

“A movie, genius.” He smells like my good peppermint shampoo and wet hair drips all over my shirt as he tucks his head under my chin. I roll my eyes, but I still sling an arm around the little bastard. He’s warm and soft and fits perfectly in that empty spot in my soul. “Do anything fun at school today?” 

He coughs. I can see the tip of his nose turn red and assume the rest of his face is a similar color. Terrible, terrible liar. “Define - fun.” 

“Something other than obsess over that idiot from shop class - whatshisface - Dave? Doug?” The sliver of nose and cheek in my view go a shade darker and I wonder if his toes fall asleep when that happens. I get a poke in the ribs for my trouble. I know exactly who he’s talking about. 

“It’s Dean.” And there’s the beginnings of that big stupid grin. I’m not a fan of the big stupid grin. I’m not a fan of Dean Winchester, either. He’ll make a pass at anything with a pulse and I get the feeling like he’s just pushing Castiel’s buttons for fun. We’re not exactly besties, either, but I don’t think he means any harm. I just kind of want to push him off a bridge sometimes.  

“Talk to him yet?” He shakes his head and I scratch him behind the ears. I swear to god he is purring. Damn. It.  _ Why do you have to be this way? _

“Want me to?” He twists around to look up at me. The arched eyebrow says  _ Absolutely Not. _ The curl at the edge of his lip, the smile that won’t budge even when he’s trying to be all serious says  _ yesplease _ . I laugh and reach for the bottle on the table. “You are hopeless, princess.” 

_ So are you.  _

We spend the rest of the night much like our first one - watching terrible movies, eating brownies (and half a tub of ice cream from the fridge) and gossiping about the neighbors. We paint each other’s toenails because  _ why the hell not _ and thankfully no one comes looking for him. I’m all done fighting for the day, I think. I act a lot more annoyed than I really am when he curls himself into a little ball, halfway in my lap, and promptly falls asleep. I thread my fingers through his hair and finish  _ Lilo & Stitch _ by myself. 

Looks like I’m going to school Monday, if only to keep my favorite little dipshit from getting pulverized. Possibly, just maybe, also to convince  _ someone else _ to ask out the only person I’ve ever really considered letting into my stupid life.  _ Wait, who’s the dipshit again? _

Awesome. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I had more for this - I do. So much more.

Mondays. What a fucking joke. 

Silently thanking the maintenance guy for being incredibly forgetful (and probably super-stoned by mid-morning), I let myself in a side door just as the bell rings and the halls fill up with semi-conscious teenagers looking for first period. If I didn’t share my first class with Castiel and didn’t have some idiotic need to make sure he’s still OK, I’d have stayed in bed. 

I spot the red hoodie a few doors up and wave. I hold up two large paper cups, still steaming, and get the big stupid coffee smile. I can live with the big stupid coffee smile. Even though he’s a foot shorter than half the kids here, he pushes his way to me quite successfully, nearly climbing over the last couple of people in the way. Never get between a kitten and his coffee. 

“Morning, princess, how was homeroom?” I steer us up the side hallway towards our first class. 

“Worth skipping to bring me coffee,” he takes a long drink and groans, “ _ and _ you got my extra sugar. I am pleased.” 

“Glad I could be of service,” I shove him a little and get a crooked smile for my trouble. His lip is still a little puffy and he's got a wicked case of zombie eye but it's not immediately obvious he got his ass kicked on Friday. “Feeling better?” 

“Yeah. Looks like we might have a quiet day after all, haven’t seen your buddy anywhere today.” At least there’s that. I hand off my cup and pull open the last set of doors on the left. The air changes in a way I deeply appreciate. The funk of sweaty kids and spilled sodas fades in favor of petroleum products and industrial solvents.

Auto shop - the only other reason to show up on a Monday morning. The classroom side is just four long tables and a white board on the wall; the only sign the room’s been updated since the mid-seventies is a laptop on a small table under the board and a projector plugged in overhead. The rest of the room backs out onto a seven-bay garage, alignment rack in the last bay. One of the overhead doors is halfway up, letting in chilly, wet, early spring air. 

Some spots at the tables are already claimed. Normally we snag the back table closest to the shop area so we can doodle in each other's notebooks and be first in the shop once the book work is done. But I'm feeling a little adventurous today. 

Let's shake it up. 

I spot the faded green knapsack parked at the front table, knowing its owner would appear soon. I flash a grin at Castiel and drop my books right across the table. He pivots neatly and walks right back out the door. I drag him back in, with much whimpering. 

“I'm doing this for your own good, kitten.” I push him toward a chair and block the escape path. “Sit.” 

I down half my coffee in one go in an attempt to silence the very jealous portion of my brain. As other students find their way in, I busy myself with setting my book out neatly, flipping to a clean page in my notebook. I'm fishing around in my bag for a pen when our table mate finally appears, narrowing his eyes at me a little as he slides into his chair. 

“Thought you got kicked out.” he pulls out a notebook. Dean Winchester, son of Detective John Winchester, the guy who busted my dad. We have a bit of a history. “Problems taking up the family business?”

“I told you already, I'm not into that. I believe in clean living - just booze and whores.” I give him my most innocent smile. I hear Cas squeak next to me and plant his forehead directly on the table. The hood goes up for additional cover. I stop a giggle against the back of my hand. 

Dean reaches across the table and lifts the hood gingerly “Hey, don't hide under there all day.” 

“No thank you really I'm fine here” he squeaks into the table. I have to use both hands to keep from laughing. This earns me a raised eyebrow from Dean. 

“Rough weekend? Or is he always like that?” 

“Started a hide and seek game last Friday.” I return to searching for the pen. “He is singularly determined to win.” 

Dean opens his mouth to respond and is immediately cut off by a loud voice at the back of the room. 

“Don't think I didn't hear that bell ring! Shut yer yaps and get out a piece of paper.” The familiar trucker cap and oil stained plaid appears from behind a car in the last bay. Mr. Singer takes about four seconds to count heads and shoot a death glare at the last two students trying to slide in unnoticed. “School says I gotta quiz you once a week now. Let's get this over with.” 

He turns to the board and grabs a blue marker off the tray, still grumbling under his breath. He writes in large block letters - NAME THE STAGES OF COMBUSTION IN A FOUR-CYCLE ENGINE. 

“So help me God, if any of you get this wrong, I’m tossin’ you out the window” I meet his glare long enough to grin and wink before I scribble down my response. Must not be that bad of a day - his face softens long enough to smile back. Someone else coughs and he immediately resumes general intimidation. Really, he's kind of nice once you get to know him. Bought me groceries one week when I couldn't quite manage. But he's got an image to uphold and sophomores to scare the shit out of. 

The room is nothing but the sounds of scratching on paper. I take my time, even draw a little diagram. We get maybe twenty minutes, then Mr. Singer is back up, pacing between tables, barking orders and collecting papers. There’s a general buzz in the air as he pulls a shipping order from his pocket and goes down the list. Mondays we work on our term projects - junkers we found back in the fall to strip down and rebuild in teams. If they’re running and ready for the classic car show in May, we pass. 

“Joanna Beth and Ash, your fuel pump came in. I want it in today - use your time wisely.” Joanna Beth and her ponytail are halfway across the room before her brother rouses himself to full consciousness and catches up. The Harvelle twins are complete opposite ends of the spectrum - if Jo really wants something, she will skin every motherfucker in her way to get it. Right now, she wants that heap of crap ‘79 Ford pickup in their bay done and gone. I think she’s sick of looking at the mustard vomit two-toned paint job, too. 

Ash? Moves like molasses. His answer for just about everything is “things take as long as they take.” And if it’s something he’s gotta do, that’s probably going to be forever. But goddamn if he can’t pick out the exact issue just by listening to an engine. I’ve seen him drop his work, usually leaving Jo holding something heavy or hot and super pissed off, and walk across three bays just to go wiggle a spark plug wire and fix a problem some other schmuck would have spent days scratching his head over. 

I still don’t see how she hasn’t killed him in his sleep yet. 

Even I’m a little on edge, hoping against hopes that my parts came in, too. The car Cas and I have been working on, a moss-green ‘73 Chevy Nova, is my ticket out of this town. Once it’s done and I graduate, I can put this town in my rearview - Nick, my dad, everything. I could just disappear and start over fresh somewhere new.

I've been trying to convince Castiel to come with me.  

I thought I had it easy, picking a car that didn't have to be towed to the school. It ran, for a week or two. Then the overheating problem became a cracked engine block and I had a full rebuild on my hands. The universe has ways of reminding me I'm doomed. 

“Miz Masters?” My head shoots up so fast my neck hurts for a second. I see that Mr. Singer has folded the shipping order and is sliding it back into his pocket. I also see that he hasn’t called Dean’s name, either. 

_ Ugh.  _

“Seeing as your classmate -” he narrows his eyes at Dean for a second, “doesn’t have your skill with steering and suspension, I’d like you to show him why his heaping pile of crap keeps pulling to the left. Take your minion with you - he could use the review.” 

“You’re nuts if you think I’m gonna let you touch my baby,” Dean mutters under his breath as he passes by me. I roll my eyes and laugh. His project is a ‘67 Impala that, once upon a time, might have been a pretty car. As it sits now, it might run, but the body is more rust than metal and ever since he laid hands on the front suspension, it’ll make a left turn if you let go of the wheel. 

“I’m gonna have to go elbow-deep if you ever want that thing to go in a straight line.” 


End file.
